


The Tangled Web We Weave

by Marlena_Owens



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Healing, Post-Caligari Spell (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina), Recovery, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlena_Owens/pseuds/Marlena_Owens
Summary: Alternating POV (Hilda/Zelda/narration) of what I imagine the first few days of Zelda's major healing from the Cailgari looked like. Perhaps set sometime in the aftermath and resolution when everybody has time to process and heal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently the victim (#survivor) of a carjacking and robbery by two young people (both armed). This is a step towards my own healing and towards what I hope Zelda eventually receives.

She's quick to recover, she is. My sister. So quick, in fact, and so convincing, that one fast forgets the week or so in which she was shattered and slowly, painfully rebuilt. 

Zelda was badly broken by Faustus. And I will not ever forgive him, our coven... our brother, our community, or the Dark Lord. But mostly I will never forgive myself. 

\--- 

My pride has so greatly eroded, the barrier between the world and myself has faded into the nothingness threatening to swallow me. 

The soft tendrils of every last thought of every satan-sent person in Greendale undulate endlessly around me; permeating the thin membrane that is my mind.

I'm most disturbed by my sister's asinine, childish... belief... in me that I am somehow capable of finding my way back to a person who I will not ever again become.

\--- 

Zelda and me, we've been intertwined for the better part of 30 decades: finding solace in the familiarity and routine of daily rituals largely unchanged from a youth that grows ever further away. She is quite sure she won't recover, but I've partaken in my share of many painful, beautiful recoveries. 

\--- 

"Hildeguard," Zelda states, flatly. She's tired of the fucking dance with the awkward footing and unclear hand placement. She's ready to leap into the first few steps, past the inevitably painful establishment of a rhythm. 

Zelda need not have spoken any louder. Hilda's telepathic abilities weren't at all marred by recent acute traumas. She'd heard, even though she was tending to her summer squashes in the mid-morning sunshine. 

"Bring an ice lolly." 

Not a proudly-displayed (and thus, not well-known) personal characteristic, Zelda enjoyed popsicles. Not always, mind you. No; really only during those moments moste ill was she rendered unable to stomach anything other than a child's summertime treat. 

When she couldn't possibly imagine smoking a cigarette with dehydrated, cracking lips but needed to satisfy an oral craving that had already left cuticles bloodied and nails jagged, Zelda enjoyed ice blocks. 

Predictably, Hilda had prepared for this moment. As she headed to the refrigerator to select the requested item, she smiled at finally receiving an invitation after 38 hours of careful tiptoeing and years of painstakingly-crafted patience.


	2. Toast

Fetching my sister is solely a matter of logistics; driven entirely by my biological need for some form of hydration. I plan our interaction to be short and transactional. 

\---

As I approach the doorway, armed with an ice pop, I prepare myself for the brutally short interaction. The lingering questions will hang blackly in the air as I pop in to make my delivery and immediately pop back out, scooped up in a wind propelled by mutual anxieties. 

\---

Her pitying smile isn't as horrifying as I remember. 

\---

She doesn't look as poorly as I always seem to remember her as having been. 

\---

Zelda critically eyes her sister's offerings. 

"For Satan's sake, Hildeguard. I asked for a single item, not an entire Halloween feast," the pale creature chastises with a dramatic gesture towards her sibling's hands. 

"Well, er... it's really only one Pedialyte popsicle-- name-brand, yeah?-- for the electrolytes and such. And a lemon lolly because that's your favourite. And also a glass of Sprite for the, er, biting carbonation. You really should try to sip something." 

Zelda sighs before declaring, "I'll allow it." She pauses. "Hilda?" 

Centuries of practice tell Hilda not to answer, so she waits. 

"You may leave now, but I think I'll want a plain piece of toast for breakfast in the morning." 

Smiling, Hilda sets the offerings on her sister's bedside table before swiftly crossing to her own nightstand. From the second drawer she retrieves a particularly spicy novel to which she'd recently lost access. With a final glance over her shoulder, she glimpses a bit of the dark cloud dissipate. 

A bit of colour returns to Zelda's cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entirely Zelda's POV. Content warning rape/non-con M/F

My mind continues to replay the awful moment of clarity occurring when the Caligari spell was (nearly) broken. 

\---

Suddenly able to react normally, I quickly detect the sole abnormality. 

My magic remains badly limited. 

But also... Faustus is far stronger than usual. 

He cannot begin to face me unless I am rendered mortal while his physical strength is bolstered. Typical. 

Frequent running induced by the recent, incessant compulsion to escape has made me quicker, more flexible, and better able to scrap than my beloved. 

Until now; where I am trudging through this sick unreality concocted by the blackest of magic. Wars are started, massacres are completed, and demons are unleashed by persons affected by the potent Caligari. 

"What? Are you unable to independently conjure a sex scene that pleases you, husband?" My tone is biting. 

After I've said it, he is on top of me in a sickeningly short moment. It is in that moment that a survival instinct whispers for me to shut the fuck up. 

But I am free.   
Free to think. Far more quickly.   
Free to speak. With far more intonation.   
Free to struggle. With far more urgency the harder he presses. 

He has interrupted a nap, and I was already lying on my back (like the dead) before his weight commits me further to my spot.

"You appear to require my input yet insist on stripping me of the power dynamics that once made us fabulous together," I continue, voice level and steady. "What's changed?" 

I realize what a mistake I've made. Faustus desires to see me afraid. He wants to witness my unwillingness to submit... the exact opposite of what can be achieved when the spell is at its most powerful. He's undone it to know he can undo me. 

"Oh, Satan, no..." I murmer as all of the will to fight drains out of me, but not because of any spell. 

It is the wisdom of the countless women before me who have found themselves in a similar scenario and it will be stored in a resivoir of collective experience for those women who will come after. 

The survival instinct shouts this time, and I begin to tunnel into myself; creating a calm disconnect. I comply, simply because my odds are better if I do. 

\---

I drag my eyes back to my sister's, which remain intently focused on me.

"Hands roamed over my hips and he completed his task quickly and transactionally. He obtained what he wanted with business-like professionalism, re-enacting the spell as soon as he had finished, precisely so I, too, would also finish at the exact same time. 

It was the sole attempt of his at allowing me an ounce of autonomy."

"Good on you," Hilda whispers with a smile, glancing with pleasure at the three nibbles of toast I've managed before sliding the plate back towards her and signalling her exit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda's POV

Zelda's always embraced the teachings of the Church of Night, but perhaps none moreso than the dedication to the notion that pleasure cannot be had without pain. 

In other words, the s-e-x life of the modern witch is complex.

When, or if, one chooses to participate in the frequent rituals of our faith, they come to expect a near-religious ecstasy every time. Sort of like the magic of Christmas morning glowing with shiny presents, bright snow, and a warm fire.

"Or, more accurately, the magic of Lupercalia," Zelda had huffed when I used the same bad analogy during the 'cauldrons and wands' talk with a pre-pubescent Sabrina. "Glowing skin from shaking orgasms and a warm hand between one's--" 

I thanked my sister for her input and promptly continued to describe the complicated process of consent in an underworld entrenched in the subjegation and exploitation of women. 

I now fear how unaffected Zelda will appear to be within the next day or so; somehow convincingly insisting she's washed away the memories of cold hands un-gently claiming her. Quite different from any Lupercalia past... Or perhaps not different at all. 

The truth is, witches live for so long and explore so many partners that we require increasingly... varied and diverse... opportunities for connection.

A fine, indistinguishable line separates painful pleasure and abuse. Zelda is not the only witch to fall prey to a colouring book of options. 

Blackwood coloured far out of the lines; yet Zelds continues to compartmentalize his violations as continuations of a relationship unhealthy since infancy. Diseased, even. 

She's asked me to return to the room in the evenings.


End file.
